There is a massive misunderstanding when it comes to marriage.
People share the common preconceived notion that sharing bed, toilet and toothbrush are synonymous with the death of the vagina and the imagination.
This is false.
Sure, pre-ring, my fantasies mirrored those found in mommy porn novels. I so badly wanted to touch a throbbing member (what ever the f -that is), and of course I wanted to rip out his hair – but not before he cooked me an impeccable four course meal including all my favourites foods i.e. cupcakes, grilled salmon, thai red curry with shrimp and cookies, and no not in that order. The table spread would be featured in one of those magazines that only features plates and tables cloths, and after the meal, all those exquisite dishes would be shattered all over the floor. There would be mood music and the sun would be setting, oh and we would be on an exotic deserted beach in the middle of nowhere.
Before the white dress, I had a healthy curiosity to foreign sexual exploits and toys. It was a wondrous fascination really. I had created a fantastical world where first kisses were fireworks and each subsequent moment was a transfer of electricity and spark.
But then I got married.
My life changed.
And so did my fantasies.
Suddenly, all 50 shades of grey-esque material made me laugh and sigh. I mean really? Violence and butt plugs?
You poor souls are missing out.
Because if you’re married or living with someone, then you know better than anyone else in the world, that there is nothing hotter, nothing sexier than the fantasy of destroying all of their favourite crap. I would never do it in real life, I know how much he loves his computers, and his fantasy role playing game stuff. But it just feels so damn good to be so bad.
Nothing in the world gets more more hot and bothered than that.
Allow me to demonstrate.
It usually starts with me cleaning the kitchen, and there they are -strewn all over the place, his Pathfinder (newer Dungeons and Dragons) books lying everywhere.
The dialogue wouldn’t be anything pretentious, I mean the point really makes itself.
It would go something like this, “Oh Honey, is this your book I asked you ten trillion times to put away?” I would obviously bat my eyelashes.
He would lean in to try to save his prized possession. But it’s too late now.
I would slowly strike the match then….
*Disclaimer* If you are a gamer reading this, the next photo could cause you serious emotional pain. Photo is graphic.
I watch as you writhe in pain – so naturally I decide to up the ante.
You start to beg desperately, screaming that you’ll vacuum for a week – that you’ll even do laundry.
Drunk off my power high, I toy with the idea of letting your book go.
You plead leveraging cleaning materials, promising me you’ll baby sit little A, that you’ll even get the groceries.
Wait no, I like getting groceries.
You promise me you’ll walk the dogs four times a day.
And just when this can’t get any better.
“HONNNNEEEEYYYYYYY.” Your shriek wakes me from my reverie.
“Can you find my Pathfinder book?”
Sweet Dreams World.
P.s. I’m holding these hostage until you build my bookshelf.
And these. You know, your hand painted mini-s for your D&D Campaign. For every hour it’s not constructed – I remove a limb.